Lost and Found
by brodeurgirl30
Summary: The case was a famous United States Supreme Court decision in 1975, O'Connor v. Donaldson. Kenneth Donaldson, a patient committed to a Florida State Mental Hospital, sued the hospital and staff for confining him for 15 years against his will. I wish I'd been born in 1975.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yes. I am back. I am hoping for weekly updates unless real life gets in the way. This is another story close to my heart. **

In 1943 at the age of 43, Kenneth Donaldson suffered a traumatic episode. After a brief hospitalization and treatment period, he resumed life with his family. Thirteen years later, while visiting his elderly parents in Florida, he reportedly believed one of his neighbors in his hometown of Philadelphia was poisoning his food. His father believed he suffered from paranoid delusions and petitioned the court for a sanity hearing. Donaldson was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and was committed to the Florida State mental health system.

He was provided with no legal counsel to represent his case.

Surrounded by dangerous criminals in an understaffed facility, he was treated by the only doctor ever present—an obstetrician—who presided over 1,000 male patients. There were no psychiatrists nor counselors, simply the one doctor and his nurse.

After 15 years of confinement against his will, Kenneth Donaldson sued the hospital. The case reached the US Supreme Court in 1975—O'Connor vs. Donaldson.

The Court ruled in Donaldson's favor. The decision meant it is now unconstitutional to commit for treatment a person who is not imminently a danger to himself or others and is capable to a minimal degree of surviving on his own.

If only I'd been born in 1975.

**A/N: Love you guys. This one is tough and labeled angst, but not quite as tough as Vanished. Leave me a review and let me know what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

_Based on a true story._

North Carolina, 1962

My cheek burns and I am certain you can count each red finger painted on my skin. I deserve it, though. I know better than to backtalk Renee when she's like this. It's been three days since she lost her job at the hosiery mill, but that's what happens when you rarely show up. Renee was lucky to make it in twice a week and even then she was too drunk to function.

Cheryl Clapp is in my grade and I hate her. She never misses an opportunity to point out how much better she is than me—pristine clothes and perfectly curled hair. She's always bragging about trips to the department store where Daddy bought her this and Daddy bought her that. My clothes come from the Salvation Army. I don't get to pick. We just walk up to the little church and they hand us two boxes. One has food—staples like flour and sugar and coffee—and the other clothes. Renee goes through it first, picking out the best pieces and I am left with whatever she discards.

We don't even own a clothes washer. We can't afford such luxuries when her Jameson and Luckies come first. Booze and cigs. She doesn't do laundry anyway so I suppose I should be thankful I have very little to keep washed. I usually pull the tub and washboard around behind our unit at the Clara Cox Apartments where we live courtesy of the United States government. Uncle Sam puts a roof over our heads, but doesn't provide clothes washers. I don't know why I hide though. It's not like Cheryl Clapp would be caught dead at Clara Cox anyway.

Her father, Daddy this and Daddy that, owns the mill—the one Renee got fired from last Monday. By lunch on Tuesday, whispered rumors filled the halls of junior high. I'm sure they came from Cheryl and I have no doubt they are true, although I wonder how Cheryl knows. I doubt Daddy this and Daddy that talks about such things at the dinner table with Mrs. Clapp and his princess.

Did you hear what Isabella Swan's mother did?

She was on her knees in his office?

He let her and then he fired her anyway.

I guess there are some principles that remain true for the rich and poor alike.

Men are scumbags.

And my mother is a whore.

Randy, or Ray, or Robbie—whatever his name is—left a week ago and I sorta, kinda miss him. Not because he was surrogate father of the year or anything. No. He was a prick like all the others, but I got to eat three squares when he was around and he never laid a hand on me. It's been three days since I've had anything substantial. There's food stamps on the kitchen counter, but Renee has yet to go to the store and it's too far for me to walk. I contemplate stealing the keys and taking the car, but I chicken out. I don't blame Riley or Ricky though. If I had a choice, I wouldn't live with Renee either. Not if I could help it.

I guess the feeling is mutual. She hates me about as much as I hate her. I am nothing but a nuisance. An extra mouth to feed. A piece of eye candy for Robert and Phil and Mike and she's jealous. As if I want any of those losers. But, what does she expect? I'm not pushing 40 and I'm not an alcoholic. My skin isn't pulled tight across my cheekbones—gaunt—though still somehow wrinkled and weathered with time and a hard life. I'm pure and untainted and virginal. My skin is clear and at 13 years old, my breasts are firm and perky. She hates the attention they give me.

I should have seen it coming. I guess I didn't think my own mother could be so malicious—though I don't know why I thought that. Vain hope I guess. My suitcase sits by the door, packed with the few threadbare outfits I own. They come for me before I'm mentally ready. I try to act unfazed, but in reality I'm scared—more scared than I've ever been in my life. When I'm scared, I lash out and find myself with a burning cheek generously donated from my mother.

How could she do this to me? We hate, but I am still her daughter. Do I mean nothing to her? But even as I write in my journal, sitting on my bed at Broughton Hospital, I know the answer.

Of course not.

Mother's who care do not lie. Mother's who care do not manipulate. Mother's who care do not have their completely sane daughters committed to mental institutions just to get them out of their hair. They don't fabricate elaborate stories. They don't plant evidence.

Damning evidence.

**A/N: Please leave a review. I would love to hear from you! **

**Also I am brodeurgirl30 on twitter. Come follow!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello again. Hope everyone in the northeast is safe and staying dry. I see Renee is not very popular. For those of you that don't know what I do, I take large picture, true stories and fill in the blanks. For example, I know the character Bella is based on was wrongly committed to a mental institution and had a horrible experience there. What I do as a writer is fill in the blanks. What were those horrible experiences? What could be her specific emotions and reactions at the time? But, Renee? Renee is very real and the catalyst that sparked these events. Hope you enjoy chapter 3.**

_Based on a true story._

The noises are different here.

My mother's moans coupled with a man's grunting are traded for the wailing of the truly tortured souls in this place. The headboard banging against the wall that divided our two rooms is replaced by the constant ping of the radiator. Constant and rhythmic. The same, yet different. There are other sounds I've yet to identify. The unfamiliarity makes it hard to sleep.

I'm not like the others here.

I'm not crazy.

I didn't do those terrible things she said. Still, no one listens to me. It's useless and I'm tired of trying. So I don't speak—not a single word.

Not anymore.

I squeeze my eyes shut and erase her from my mind. She doesn't deserve my attention. I focus, pushing away any negative thoughts.

I'm warm.

The heat works here.

My stomach is full.

I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner today.

My clothes are clean and don't have holes and there are more folded on the shelf.

I have blankets and shoes and dessert on Fridays.

I have school and Cheryl Clapp isn't here.

I have Alice.

She's my best friend.

I do this nightly to remind myself that in some ways things are better now than they were before. One of the therapists suggested it during our "Coping with Change" session.

Breakfast the next morning is warm toast and scrambled eggs. They are the powdered kind, but better than nothing. Alice crams forkful after forkful in her mouth.

If she doesn't slow down she is going to choke. I tap her and shake my head.

She grins and returns to her eggs, but slows down a bit. Alice isn't crazy either. She struggles with depression, but I don't see how anyone could blame her. I couldn't cope with what she's been through and she couldn't either. The still puffy scars inside her wrist prove it.

Her mother on the other hand was a raving lunatic.

No. Alice's not crazy.

She just wanted out.

I can't trust anyone here except her. I tell myself I don't really know her, but my instincts tell me she's harmless. There's no one else. My wing is small—only twenty girls. Other wings are designated for men and the elderly. The top floor houses the criminally insane and real whack jobs—straight jackets and the whole ball of wax. Their screams are the loudest at night.

The days are long. With the hospital understaffed, we only have group twice a week and individual therapy every other week. We have school and scheduled outside time when it isn't raining. There's a recreation room, but you have to earn thirty stars throughout the week to use it for an hour on Saturdays. It's Saturday and I only have twenty two stars. It seems silly, but when you are stuck in here, anything to break up the monotony is welcome and I really wanted recreation time this week. I'm eight stars short and only one person is responsible.

Lauren Mallory.

I've learned quickly that she's in charge even though she's not a doctor or a nurse or even an orderly. She's my roommate and I hate her.

"Isabella, things will go much easier for you here if you just talk to me—tell me what you're thinking." Dr. Gerandy sits in his wingback chair. A pad of paper rests on his crossed knee—a pen in his left hand.

I sigh and look out the window. A squirrel sits on a branch, its eyes darting around wildly no doubt looking for danger—the predator readying to pounce on its prey.

I know the feeling.

Dr. Gerandy rises and walks to the window, pulling the drapes closed. I roll my eyes and focus on my lap where my fingers twist and turn as he returns to his chair.

"Isabella." He says my name and I can't keep from lifting my eyes to his. "I only want to help you."

And I know he does. He is kind and has given me no reason to distrust him, but I can't risk it. I don't know how she does it, but I know if I said anything Lauren would find out and use it against me.

There are others—girls who survive by doing Lauren's bidding. People are constantly listening and watching. It's another reason I don't speak. But I can't blame them. Everyone has to find their own way in here.

A way to stay sane.

"Tell me about your mother." I try not to flinch when Dr. Gerandy brings her up, but my gut twists so violently it's impossible not to react. "Why do you think she committed you? Because honestly Isabella, other than your unwillingness to talk, I don't see how you fit here."

I narrow my eyes at him and wonder if he is trying to bait me—get me to talk. But what's the point? What if he declared me sane and sent me on my merry way? Where would I go?

I sit and ignore him.

It's better here anyway.

"How are you getting along with your roommate?" My eyes flash to his again. I can't help it. Hope rises in my chest, making it feel tight. He's never brought her up and I wonder if someone is finally on to her game. "She seems like a nice girl," he says and my eyes fall back to my twisting fingers. I remain silent.

Dr. Gerandy believes her act. It is a grand performance worthy of an Academy Award. I sigh again, ready for my individual therapy time to end. I'm safe here, but it is exhausting, because whether or not I answer the questions Dr. Gerandy asks, they still rattle around in my brain.

I want to go back to my room and crawl in bed, but I am afraid Lauren might still be there. I know it is unlikely since she earned her thirty stars and is probably enjoying the rec room, but the fear settles in my stomach nonetheless.

**A/N: I know the chapters for this story have been short, but I am trying to remain faithful to the weekly post. It is a busy time of year and won't slow down until I go on Christmas break, so I hope the short chapters are satisfactory. Never fear, though. I will tell the story in its entirety. Also, be on the look out for some drabbles and maybe a one shot here or there as I am participating in the twilight 25. **

**Twitter: brodeurgirl30**

**Please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Whadda ya know? A longer chapter. This one just flowed. **

****_Based on a true story._

Pulling my knees to my chest, I tilt my head back against the wall. I should have known better. After two years in this place I've let myself get too comfortable—complacent. Now I'm paying for it. Stupid stupid stupid, I bang my the back of my head against the wall in rhythm with my thoughts.

My imprudence lands me three days in solitary. There is nothing to mark the passage of time and it all blurs together—days or maybe just a few hours pass. I only know I miss Alice and her endless chatter. The girl seriously never shuts up, but with my refusal to speak it works. I make up conversations with her in my head to keep me sane and wonder ironically if that makes me crazy.

The slot in the door opens and a tray of food appears, held by a disembodied hand. Nameless, voiceless—just a hand. I roll forward onto my knees and take its offering, brushing my fingertips over its skin lightly. I don't remember being touched affectionately, or touched at all really. I'm sure Renee must have when I was a baby. She had to change me and feed me, but that all ended before I'm able to remember. I should be use to it by now, but I'm not. I crave it.

Eggs and toast again and I know it must be morning. I think this is my third breakfast meal in solitary and hope this is my last day, though I don't know what I'll do when I get out. Lauren will still be my roommate and I have no idea how to handle the situation. It is her fault why I am in solitary. I don't know what I did to make her hate me—why she made me her target, but then Renee never had any reason either other than my existence.

Maybe it is me. Maybe I am the problem. No other explanation makes sense after history has repeated itself so many times. Like Renee, Lauren must have simply wanted me out of her way and took the necessary measures to make sure it happened.

I suppose I could tell what really happened. Dr. Gerandy is always wanting me to open up, to talk. I still can. I don't have blocks. My chest doesn't tighten in anxiety when I think about it. I just choose not to. It's one of the few things in my life I have control over. I don't get to choose where I live, the clothes I wear, the food I eat, the schedule I keep, but I can control this. No one can make me talk.

My voice is mine.

Still, I can't help but wonder if it would make a difference. Lauren stole everything and they found it stuffed under my bed. She'd been doing it for weeks—lifting small items from patients and staff alike—and now everyone thinks I did it. I squeeze my eyes shut at the memories that fill my mind. No one is allowed to keep much of anything in here, so the few possessions they have are sacred. I can still hear the hisses and obscenities hurled my way as I'm escorted to solitary. The victims are not happy with the accused.

It dawns on me then. Lauren didn't simply earn me a few days in solitary. She successfully branded me with a bright red target on my back. The other patients will hate me and any trust I've built with Dr. Gerandy hangs in the balance because of the pill bottles they found stolen from his office. Suddenly the thought of freedom doesn't sound that great. I am safer in here.

I push the tray of food away, my appetite non-existent after the path my thoughts have taken. Lauren covered her bases well and I realize in all reality, talking probably won't help. No one will believe me. Angry, kick my foot at the tray, sending it crashing into the wall and bury my head in my hands. I allow the tears to come this time and realize I can't remember the last time I cried. One thing I learned quickly here is never to show weakness. It is the equivalent of voluntarily standing before a firing squad. However here in solitary, I allow myself a few moments of vulnerability.

The door opens and I know that today is definitely the day. My freedom is not accompanied with joy. I am escorted straight to Dr. Gerandy's office. I can't pinpoint exactly when I decide, but I am going to come clean. I am going to talk and tell him the truth about Lauren. The worse that could happen is he won't believe me and then I will know, but I have to try. I want to trust him like he says I can. Maybe he can help me.

But, I never get the chance. Upon arrival I find Dr. Gerandy has been transferred and replaced by a Dr. Denali. She is cold with steel blue eyes that send ice water running through my veins. Dr. Denali makes it abundantly clear she will not tolerate unruly behavior and since I cannot be trusted I will be under her watchful eye. By the time our meeting is over it is lunchtime. The orderly, James I learn his name is, leads me to the cafeteria.

We enter and I am met with a hundred piercing eyes. Everyone is staring and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I retrieve my tray and find an empty table, leaning forward to let my hair fall around me. The curtain provides an illusion and I try to focus on eating my lunch. I am hungry since I didn't eat breakfast.

I feel someone standing in front of me and lift my head to find Alice. I smile for the first time in days and nod my head for her to take a seat. She narrows her eyes and I am met with a resounding slap against my cheek. It startles me so that I yelp out loud. Alice turns without a word and sits at another table of girls.

"No one likes a thief, Isabella," Lauren sneers as she passes. "As a friend I suggest you watch your back."

That night I don't allow myself to sleep deeply with Lauren in the room, but exhaustion soon claims me and I can't keep my eyes open. I awake to screaming. It is coming from Lauren. The door flies open and the light is switched on. It hurts my eyes and I squint. When they finally adjust I can feel the color drain out of my face. There is blood on me, on her bed, and on Lauren. It turns my stomach and I jump from under the covers to run for the lavatory when a knife, the kind they use in the cafeteria kitchen clanks to the floor.

Lauren is screaming and pointing. "She's crazy! She tried to kill me!" She pulls the collar of her shirt to one side and reveals a stab wound to her shoulder.

James is on me and I am restrained and hauled out of the room. I find myself once again in Dr. Denali's office, but I refuse to speak. Hours or maybe only minutes pass and James takes me to the showers and strips me of my clothes. He roughly scrubs my body until my skin is a stinging angry red.

"Aw, am I hurting you dollface? You can tell me you know. Oh wait, you can't talk can you?" he laughs maniacally. "That's OK. I can tell you like it rough."

He scrubs everywhere including between my legs and I am embarrassed and ashamed. He dries me and pulls on my clothes. I am taken to a different room with a single bed and forced to lay on it. He leans across me, allowing his weight to settle against my chest and grabs my arm. He ties my wrists in restraints tightly before leaning in closely. I turn my head away from him, but he violently grasps my chin in his hand and forces my head to him. My breath stutters as I feel his lips so close to my skin. His smile is sickening before he pulls back abruptly and pats my cheek.

"Doctor's orders, dollface."

Three days I lay restrained to the bed. "For my own safety and the safety of others," I'm told. James, comes in to feed me and let me go to the bathroom three times a day. He stands and leers as I urinate. His eyes rake over my body as I dress and undress for showers. He washes me still, worry for self harm his excuse, but he is rougher with me than I would ever be. He has no regard for my private parts and touches me freely.

Finally, I am returned to my old room but I cannot stand another minute in this place. Lauren ignores me, surprisingly, but I suspect she is only plotting her next move. With Alice no longer speaking to me, I have no one and every day James' behavior causes my fear to escalate. On my fifth day of freedom I am once again granted time outdoors. It is a sunny day. I want to sit in the grass and tilt my head back letting its rays warm my skin, but I don't have time. Instead I focus on my task, walking to the perimeter of the property and down along the fence line. I pick small pebbles and toss them ahead of me, stopping every so often to kneel and exam something in an attempt to look inconspicuous. Really I am searching for any weakness in the fence—any way of escape.

On Wednesday I find it. A drainage ditch runs under the fence at the northwest corner of the property. It is narrow, but I am small and think I can fit. I don't get outside time again until the following Monday due to the weather. I wait until James and the other orderlies are distracted and then make a beeline for the ditch. Once I am around the corner of the building I break into a sprint. I reach the fence and take one last glance over my shoulder. No one is watching. No one notices me. No one cares and though I am thrilled as I pull myself under the fence towards freedom, a pain still settles deep in my chest.

**A/N: Still with me? Good. Leave me some review lovin'! **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: So yeah...this is a week late, but I threw a big BD2 party and it sucked up all of my time. They party turned out great and I loved the movie. Hopefully that is a valid excuse for many of you.**

****_Based on a true story._

I press my belly to the cold damp ground, digging my fingers into the earth and pull myself through the gap between the fence and the drainage ditch. My dress snags on something and for a moment I panic thinking someone has caught me. It is only a nail, but when I struggle to break free it tears my gown and a gash in my back. I bite my lip to keep from crying out and heave myself the rest of the way underneath.

My dress is wet and cakes of mud cling to it. It dawns on me I have nothing else to my name than the ruined dress on my back, but I cannot worry about that now. I must focus on getting as far away as I can before someone realizes I'm missing. I run as fast as I can, not stopping until I'm deep into the woods that run adjacent to the institution's property staying away from town and people. If my memory serves me from the drive in, the woods go on for about a mile ending at a creek that divides it from a field that has been cleared.

As time passes, it is evident I severely underestimated the size of the woods. By the time I can hear the water trickling through the creek it is getting dark. I walk along the water's edge until I find a large rock that seems sturdy enough to hold my weight and I use it as a stepping stone to get the other side. The field is filled with corn stalks, its crop long ago harvested, waiting for the workers' scythes to cut them to the ground. For now, though, I am thankful for the shelter they provide. They hide me from sight and allow me to put even more distance between me and the hell I flee.

Darkness falls as does the temperature. I'm exhausted and decide I must rest. I collapse under a large oak and lean my back against its trunk, pulling my knees to my chest for warmth. Building a fire crosses my mind, but I am afraid someone might see and more than that I don't know how. My intentions are only to rest a minute, but when my eyes slip close they do not open again until the sun is shining bright.

I sit up quickly only to wince. The gash on my back feels tight and pulls against the fabric of the my dress where the blood has dried. Standing, I take in my surroundings. There seems to be no one for miles and I find this both thrills and terrifies me. It is only now I realize how utterly unprepared I am. And as if to taunt my ill thought out escape, my stomach growls angrily. The goal of my day becomes abundantly clear: water, food, and shelter. None of those things are found here and so I walk.

And I walk.

And I walk.

And then I hear it—water rushing over pebble and stone—and I run. I drop to my knees scooping handful after handful of cool water to my lips, greedily gulping it down until I feel my belly might burst with it. Finding a rock, I sit and pull my shoes and stockings off. My feet are tired and rubbed with blisters. The water stings the open sores at first, but then soothes the soreness. I walk to the other side and climb the bank before putting my stockings and shoes back on then take a moment to scan the horizon.

That's when I see it—up a hill and a little to the left—a small white house. Perhaps I can find food there. If I'm lucky, I can hide in the woods until dark and then search their waste cans for scraps. When I draw closer, though, it is both better and worse. The house appears abandoned so there is the hope of shelter, but none for food. I tell myself it will be OK. I've been hungry before. It's only been a day and a half and the stream is within walking distance. Tomorrow I can try and fashion a fishing pole or maybe just search for crayfish under the rocks.

If I let my thoughts wander too far I can feel the edges of fear creeping in so I remain focused on small, immediate tasks like opening the door. I throw my shoulder into it, but it doesn't budge. I kick it has hard as I can and still it won't give. Desperation fuels me and I run around the perimeter checking every window until I finally find a broken one on the far side of the house. I jerk my hand back and squeeze it to my chest—a cut on my hand from broken glass to go with the gash on my back. The gash has been aching all day, but I've done my best to ignore it. Now the pain in my hand brings it to my mind. I'm sure by now it is infected. As soon as I can I will clean it. That means not only water but fire to boil it. I have a lot to do.

I stick my arm through the hole with more caution this time and turn the latch. Surprisingly enough the window slides up easily. I'm one leg in and one leg out before I realize anyone is around and his angry voice breaks through the silence.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

**A/N: Uh oh, B. **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. Holidays. Good news is Ch. 7 is already done so it will post next weekend and 8 is well on its way.**

****_Based on a true story._

I startle at the stranger's abrupt appearance, hitting my head on the window before falling in a heap on the ground at his feet. No one was in the house—I am sure of it—and decide he must have walked up the hill from the creek. Rubbing the knot already forming, I scowl up at him. He's young—maybe only a couple of years older than me. His clothing is dirty and rumpled, though not nearly as bad as mine. A ragged satchel is slung over his shoulder, his hand holding it close to his body. If I had to guess he's been on his own awhile, too.

We stare at each other a couple of beats until he raises his eyebrows. It is only then I remember he asked me a question. I contemplate answering, but I don't know if I can trust him. When it is clear I'm not going to, he narrows his eyes. His glare makes me uncomfortable and I drop my gaze to stare at the tufts of grass jutting out around the foundation.

He huffs, obviously frustrated, then turns and stomps around the side of the house. I stay where I am, not entirely sure what to do next. In the end hunger and thirst win out. I stand and follow, finding the front door left open. It seems like an invitation. He wouldn't leave it open if he didn't want me to follow, would he? I step in cautiously and scan what appears to be the living room. To the right is a hallway that leads back to what I assume are bedrooms and to the left, the kitchen.

The stranger is squatting in the corner, hunched over his satchel. I'm nervous and it causes me to fidget and pull at the hem of my dress. He doesn't acknowledge me and as more time passes the more restless I grow. The floorboards creak when I shift my weight. His head snaps in my direction and I know I'm wrong.

The open door was most definitely not an invitation.

He stands and stalks towards me. The fire raging in his eyes causes me to retreat and I stumble backwards out the front door, once again landing on my behind at his feet.

"I asked you what the hell you think you're doing?"

Terrified, I curl into a ball covering my head and wait for what? I don't know. He stops abruptly and I sense more than witness his retreat back into the house. Not knowing what to do, I stand and walk around the back side of the house kicking pebbles as I go. There's a tire swing hanging from a rope tied to a limb of an oak tree. I climb in kicking my feet to swing back and forth.

My heart is pounding and I realize that I'm actually angry. Who does he think he is? This clearly isn't his house anymore than it's mine, yet he acts like he owns the joint. I'm hungry and I'm tired and I'm sick of the bullying. Bullying from Renee. Bullying from Ray and Randy and Ralph. Bullying from James. Bullying from whoever he is.

It all wells up. My ire burns and for the first time in a long time I feel the urge to speak. No, not speak—scream.

So I do.

I take a deep breath and let it rip. I scream at the top of my lungs. I scream until I am red faced and out of breath. I scream and I scream and I scream. And when I out of breath, I suck in another lungful and go again. There is nothing but sound. Sound and rage, though I really don't know why it all comes out at this moment. I didn't know all of _this_ was locked inside of me. It just bubbles up without permission from nowhere—an endless stream of madness and energy.

I beat the tire swing, kicking and wailing like I'm on fire—like the devil's got me by the tail. Then he is there. His arms are under mine, dragging me out of the tire swing, but it is too late. I'm inconsolable. We are in the dirt, rolling around on the ground under the towering oak. He wraps himself around me, restraining my arms and legs. Whether it is to protect himself or me I don't know. I scratch and bite and hit, but it is no use. He is stronger than me and he doesn't give up.

Faster than it came, it drains out of me. The gash in my back throbs. I'm exhausted and sweaty though the temperature has begun to cool again. When I am calmer, his hold loosens. He runs his thumb across my cheek—under my eye—wiping away the dampness left behind.

He holds on for an immeasurable amount of time. He doesn't speak, but I can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes unevenly. Then without a word, he unwraps himself and stands, taking only a few steps before turning back to face me.

"You can come inside. Just don't get in my way."

I nod.

"And mind your own business."

I nod again and follow him back inside the house. He walks to his satchel and I sit in a corner, pulling my knees to my chest.

His sigh his audible—resigned. He digs around a few moments, then tosses me an apple.

"I'm Edward," he says.

"Isabella," I whisper.

**A/N: She speaks! So a rocky introduction for the two and what's up with Edward? His mood swings are giving me whiplash. Reviews are like gifts and my birthday is coming up.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: What's this? A chapter you say? Yeah...holidays, a kindle fire and writer's block. Such a deadly combination.**

**__**_Based on a true story._

My voice cracks, rough with disuse and the rawness left behind by my tantrum. Starving, I take a bite of the apple Edward gave me. I try to chew slowly and enjoy it because I don't know when I will get another chance to eat, but my self control is not that strong and I end up swallowing chunks whole.

The temperature is dropping as the sun goes down. My clothes are still damp with sweat and I know the two are not a good combination. I contemplate asking him if he has a jacket or something, but he told me to stay out of his way so I remain quiet. I don't want to lose the shelter the house provides me by angering him. Curling up tighter, I rub my hands up and down my arms trying to create a little warmth with the friction.

Edward is sitting in the corner across from me, eating his own apple. My movement attracts his attention and he frowns. "Cold?"

My eyes dart up at the sound of his voice. His eyes are green and softer than they were before. Still, I'm hesitant to talk. My reluctance to speak startles me and sends me reeling inside, especially after this afternoon's episode. I even found the courage to whisper my name. Now the sound just won't come and a whisper from deep inside tells me I don't have as much control as I thought. My muteness has slipped into something else entirely.

"What? Cat got your tongue?"

He's teasing me and I don't like it, not when everything churns in turmoil. Scowling, I turn towards the corner, putting my back to him. Maybe he can take a hint. I don't want to talk.

"Aww, come on. Don't be like that." His words are apologetic but I can still hear the smile in his voice. Edward confuses me. He's made it clear he doesn't want me here—that I'm in his way—and now he wants to chat the night away as if we were old friends.

I startle at his touch, not realizing he moved while I was lost in my thoughts. "Jesus. You're freezing Bella." My eyes widen and I don't know if it's the careless way he's taken the Lord's name in vain or the nickname he's decided to give me. It hints of familiarity and comfort we don't have.

When I don't respond he sighs and stands, pulling a lighter from his pocket to light a candle then disappears down the hallway. He returns to my side clutching a ratty old quilt to wrap around my shoulders, when he stops suddenly.

"You're hurt." I turn to look at him, but his eyes are still on my back. He squats down and sets the blanket aside. "Can I have a look?"

Images of James flash through my mind and the helplessness he made me feel, but I know I need help. I can't reach my own back so I take a steadying breath and nod. I feel his fingers brush against the torn fabric of my dress, tentative at first, then firmer.

"How did you do this?"

I don't know how to answer him without speaking and after a few moments of warring with myself I settle for shrugging my shoulders.

"I don't think it's infected yet, but it will be if you don't clean it. Come to the creek."

Besides the sting left behind by the water and the tingling left behind by Edward's touch, the trip to creek is uneventful.

I try to push the words out to thank him once we've returned to the house, but they lodge in my throat like a stone so I settle for tipping my head instead. Edward smiles at my acknowledgement and returns to rummage around in that satchel of his.

The next thing I know it's morning. I'm still in my corner, curled in a ball with the quilt wrapped around me. The sun streams in through the window and I bask in the warmth it gives. I stretch, attempting to get the kinks out that come with sleeping on a hardwood floor, and sit up. My eyes scan the room for Edward and I find him sleeping in the opposite corner. He fell asleep sitting up, his head leaning against the wall for support with his jacket pulled tight around him. He's cold and I realize he's given up his only source of warmth for me.

Quietly I pad across the floor and drape the quilt over him. Edward stirs, but settles again quickly, pulling the quilt up around his shoulders. Asleep and unguarded, I can tell he is definitely young—seventeen, eighteen at the most. I think of my story and how I came to be in this abandoned house and wonder if Edward's is at all the same. Maybe his mother was a manipulative whore like mine, or maybe he had a father that liked to use him as a punching bag.

It isn't fair. Edward comes across hard, but I can tell from the little interactions we've had that his core is good. Whatever his story is, I have no doubt it's what caused the callous boy of yesterday afternoon.

"Morning." His voice still laced with sleep draws me from my thoughts.

I smile in return.

"Wow. You're a regular chatterbox. Maybe that's what I should call you." I narrow my eyes, causing him to bark out a laugh. "OK. OK." He holds his hands up in surrender. "We'll stick with Bella."

My cheeks warm with his teasing and I shift uncomfortably at the awkward silence that follows. He stands and stretches then retrieves his satchel, slinging it over his shoulder.

"I need to go into town. Will you be OK here by yourself?"

I nod, though the thought of him leaving unnerves me. He talks to me even when I don't respond. It reminds me of Alice and my heart clenches. I hate she believed the lie. I thought she knew me better.

"I should be back sometime tonight. I'll whistle so you know it's me." He pulls a couple more apples out of his bag and holds them out to me. "It's all I've got, but if things go well in town I'll have more when I get back."

He steps to the door, but pauses and looks back. "See you later, Bella."

But, I didn't see him later.

Not that night and not the next.

**A/N: Reviews are like a drug to me.**


	8. Chapter 8

_Based on a true story._

I guess some part of me knew it would happen. It's the reason I saved the apples, rationing them out just in case.

But the apples are gone now and there is still no sign of Edward. It's getting dark. It's the third time night has fallen since he left. I've come to hate the nighttime. The old house is noisy and every sound sends my heart racing. I curl up in the corner with the quilt and wrap it tightly around myself. If he is not back by tomorrow I will have to chance leaving the house on my own. Fear shoots through me at the thought of being found and taken back to the asylum, but I am in desperate need of food. Once again I fall asleep shivering, my ears straining to hear a whistle.

Something causes my eyes to snap open. It's still pitch dark and it takes a moment for them to adjust. The wind outside howls, whipping through the trees and across the field. A clap of thunder causes me to jump. A scream pierces the night and it takes a moment to register it's mine. I pull the quilt over my head and lay perfectly still. Another crack of thunder rattles the windows and suddenly the front door flies open, slamming into the wall.

"Bella!" His voice is rough—on edge.

Despite the raging storm outside, my heart calms at the sound of his voice. I scramble to my feet and drop the quilt. Cast in shadow, I can only make out his form. He's hunched over holding his side and his shoulders move up and down dramatically, as if each breath is a laborious effort. Lightning flashes illuminating his face.

He's hurt. He drops his bag and falls to his knees—one hand braced against the hardwood floor and the other still clutching his side. I run to him and take a deep breath, forcing the sounds that do not want to obey past my lips.

"What happened?"

He grunts and tries to stand. "They're coming. We have to leave."

"Now!" he yells when I don't move immediately. I grab the quilt and the few candles spread throughout the room as Edward pushes himself off the floor. I don't know who is coming or why we have to leave. I only know that Edward has provided food, shelter, and company. He could have abandoned me—running from whomever chases him—but he came back for me. He thought of me.

And it means the world.

I shove the candles in his bag before he slings it over his shoulders. He pauses momentarily, taking my hand in his.

"I'm sorry, Bella," he says, then turns and yanks me out the door into the blinding rain.

We run and run and run. We run until my calves burn despite the cold and every breath fills my lungs with fire. I don't know where we are or where we are going and wonder if Edward does or if he is blindly running, too.

And then I halt abruptly, wrenching my arm from his grasp. We are at the edge of a town. Towns mean people. Towns mean exposure.

"Bella." The tone of his voice sounds like he is talking to a wounded animal. His arm is extended, palm up, willing me to give him my hand once again.

"I-I can't."

"We can't stay in the open. There's an abandoned building. We can hide there and figure out what to do."

I don't move. My eyes shift back and forth from Edward to the deserted street in front of us. No one is out this time of night in this weather.

"Please, Bella," he pleads, drawing my eyes back to his. I step forward placing my palm in his hand and we are off again, running through town, darting between buildings and down side streets until Edward finally stops in front of a door. The paint is chipped away in places, rust peeking through.

He gives it a swift kick and it flies open, crashing into the wall behind it. Edward shuts the door then turns scanning the room. I don't understand what he is doing until his eyes stop on several wooden pallets stacked in a corner and he rushes to drag them in front of the door, barricading us inside.

The sudden stillness seems strange. Edward steps toward me and raises his hand to brush the wet matted hair from my forehead. "You ok?"

I nod as he drops his hand from my head only to lace his fingers with mine. "Come on. We need to get dry and warm."

He pulls me further into the room and drops his bag in a corner. He lets go and squats to rummage through our few belongings. He pulls out clothes and the quilt. Nothing is completely dry after running through the rain for God knows how long, but it beats the soaked clothes we're wearing.

"Here." Edward tosses me clothing then reaches behind his head and grabs his shirt, yanking it off. My cheeks warm and I'm glad for the darkness. When his fingers find the buckle of his belt I turn around to give him privacy. I hear him chuckle, but I don't think it's funny. "It's safe. Your turn. I promise I won't look," he says and I realize I'm still clutching the clothes he gave me against my chest. I peek over my shoulder to make sure he's not lying and find his back to me.

The dry clothes feel good against my chilled skin and I am thankful we've found our resting place for the night. His pants are big and I have to roll the waist and cuff the pant legs. The shirt hangs off my shoulder and I keep tugging it up in place.

"Ok," I say when I am satisfied.

Edward spreads out the quilt and I light a candle taking a moment to study his face. There is a tightness in his eyes that hints at the pain he is trying to hide. He has a gash above his right eye and some scrapes on his cheek, but the rain has washed away any traces of blood from his face. I want to ask what happened, but I know how quickly his mood can change so I keep my mouth shut.

He rummages through his bag and pulls out a pill bottle—the kind that only comes from a pharmacist. "Here," he says popping the top, "it's an antibiotic. I got it for your back."

I grab the bottle and read the label—Penicillin.

"You, too," I say nodding my head towards the gash above his eye. He smiles and we both swallow our pills dry.

Edward pats the quilt next to him. "Come on, Bella. Let's try and get a little sleep. We'll have to leave before first light." He frowns when I don't move right away. I've only known him a short time and most of it he left me abandoned in that house. He's only touched me once and it was in restraint during my tantrum. We've never been affectionate and suddenly I'm overtaken with nerves. "It's freezing outside and this is the quickest way to get warm," he reasons.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"I came back for you didn't I?"

He's right and if I'm going to survive, I'm going to have to trust someone. Edward has given me no reason not to. I sit down on the quilt and lay down on my side—my back to his chest. He reaches behind him and grabs the quilt pulling it around both of us. He scoots closer, wrapping his arm around my waist and tangling our legs together.

"Just relax," Edward whispers in my ear. The heat from his body envelopes me and he's right. I'm instantly warmer. I take a deep breath and settle back against him. Edward notices and tightens his arm around me. I'm about to fall asleep when a thought crosses my mind.

"Where did you get the Penicillin?"

It's Edward's turn to stiffen. "Go to sleep, Bella." I can't. I'm wide awake.

"You stole it didn't you?"

"Yes." His easy admittance catches me off guard.

"That's why we had to run. The police are after you."

"Maybe I will call you chatterbox."

I nudge him with my elbow and he laughs.

"Is that how you got hurt?"

He sighs at my persistence, all trace of humor gone. "No."

The thought of Edward catching a beating because of me makes my heart squeeze in my chest.

"Promise me."

"That's not how I got hurt," he promises.

But I don't believe him.

**A/N: As always thanks to my beta simba517 who challenges me to think about everything I'm saying. She keeps me on my toes and I love her for it. Special thanks to writtenbyabdex for the lovely banner she made. You can find a link to it on my profile. Follow me on twitter brodeurgirl30. **

**Reviews are appreciated.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: What's this? An early chapter? Why yes my friends! I was hit with the flu, snow days, and Martin Luther King holidays. It all combined to a whopping four chapters! So without further ado...**

****_Based on a true story._

It's warm and even though I'm stiff from sleeping on the hard ground I can't remember a time I've felt this comfortable or this safe. Edward is still sleeping, his arm still wrapped securely around my waist as the gray light of dawn begins to filter through one of the tiny windows that lines the top of the building. I don't want to burst this bubble of calm, but Edward said we need to leave before it is light and besides I need to relieve myself something fierce.

"Edward?" The room is much larger than it looked last night and my voice echoes through the cavernous space making me jump. Edward stirs behind me. His arm loosens its hold and he rolls over on his back stretching.

We're up and moving then, our few belongings jammed into Edward's bag. We spend the day on the edge of town under the cover of trees and I wonder why we are not looking for shelter. I'm hungry and may seriously die of boredom, but I don't complain. Edward's doing the best he can which is a far cry better than what I could have ever done. I shudder to think where I might be if I hadn't found him. Edward's plan becomes clear when night falls and we return to the building I now know to be an abandoned warehouse. We're just skipping town during the day when people are more likely to be out and about.

He pulls out a single candle and lights it before tossing me the quilt and slinging his bag back over his shoulder. "I'll be back." His words cause my heart to stutter. The last time he left I didn't see him for days. He must sense my doubt because he is suddenly squatting in front of me. Lifting his hand he places his palm against my cheek. His touch is warm and I resist the urge to lean into it. "I know you're scared, but we need food—more than just apples. I'll only be gone an hour or two. I promise."

He's right and I nod my head though I am anything but comfortable with him leaving. With my acceptance he is gone and I'm left alone. I try not to let my mind wander, but with every creak and groan of the old building I am fighting a losing battle. The candle flame dances making the shadows play on the wall. I wrap the quilt around my shoulders pulling my legs to my chest and bury my head between my knees. Taking deep breaths, I try to focus on anything other than the monsters suddenly lurking around every corner.

Time creeps by slowly and my mind turns from the monsters to Edward. What if he's hurt again? What if he's laying in an alley somewhere needing help? What if he doesn't come back at all? How long has it been? I'm slipping into full on panic and ready to run out into the night to find him when the door opens and suddenly he's there in front of me. I throw myself at him and he catches me in his arms, chuckling at me again.

"You miss me, Chatterbox?" I'm so glad to see him I don't comment on the infernal nickname. When I don't let go immediately, his chuckle dies in his throat and he pulls me tighter to him. "It's OK, Bella. I told you I'd come back. Here, look at what I brought." He slides his hands to my shoulders and gently detaches me from him.

Edward pulls his bag off his shoulder and reaches inside pulling out packages of deli ham and cheese, a loaf of bread, and two sodas. "It's all I could get my hands on," he apologizes, but I'm already tearing the packages open. He's brought a feast. I make the first sandwich and almost swallow the bites without chewing.

Edward admonishes me to slow down. The food's not going to run off and he doesn't want me to get sick. I summon all the willpower I have to take small bites and chew slowly, but I know he is right and getting sick on my stomach would waste the nourishment my body desperately needs.

When we finish, Edward puts the food back in his bag. It's chilly enough in the warehouse that it should keep and the thought of a proper breakfast in the morning makes me smile. We settle down on the quilt and Edward doesn't hesitate to pull me to him. Warm, safe, and with a full belly I have no trouble drifting off to sleep.

For the next three weeks my life settles into a routine, leaving at first light and returning by nightfall. Edward disappears each night bringing back food and on one occasion, and much to my delight, another blanket. I know he is stealing most of it, though sometimes he has some cash on him and that concerns me even more. Where does he get it? I hope for pick-pocketing and worry for so much more. It makes me uneasy, but how can I chastise him when he is doing everything he can to take care of me? Surely it would be easier on his own. So I make a vow not to question him though the questions are mounting.

Day by day my curiosity grows. His eyes deny his youth, making him appear ancient. Yet, sometimes when he is sleeping or when he is being playful, the tension leaves his face and I see a glimpse of the boy he could have been if life hadn't dealt him whatever crap hand he holds. I wonder what his story is and what of his family. At times when I feel especially brave I almost ask, but I'm too conscious of the can of worms it would open. For I have a story, too. A story I'm not ready to share. How can I demand to know about his life when I'm so unwilling to divulge mine? So regardless of how close we've become over the past month, regardless of how much I long for him to pull me into his arms at night, we are still strangers walking a tightrope.

And I'm waiting for it to snap.

**A/N: I don't know why, but I am really tempted to share the true story this is based on tonight...but I will refrain until the epilogue. **


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Wow! I meant to post this past weekend and it completely slipped my mind until now. Sorry! **

**I have a lot of thank yous I want to mention up front. First of all thank you to allthingsHHH and the Bookish Temptations blog for giving Lost and Found a shout out. You can find the link to the post on Bookish Temptations on my profile. **

**Also, thanks to Deebelle1 for creating a banner. You will find a link to her banner on my profile.**

**And last, but certainly not least, thank you to my FABULOUS beta and best friend simba517.**

_Based on a true story._

The proverbial tightrope snaps only a week later when Edward leaves the warehouse before dawn to relieve himself. The absence of his body heat causes me to shiver and I reach for his bag to retrieve the extra blanket. I barely have the clasp unbuckled when he's there, snatching it from my hands and screaming.

"What the hell are you doing? I thought I told you to mind your own damn business!"

"I'm sorry," I stammer. "I was just cold."

"You checking up on me, Bella? Don't trust me so you're snooping around now?"

His reaction stuns me and I stare stupefied. "I only wanted the other blanket." I've never seen him this angry and it scares me. Tears burn hot trails down my cheeks as he throws the bag over his shoulder and walks out, leaving me alone and a little more than confused in the warehouse.

I wait for him to return, but he doesn't. The sun is rising and I know I can't stay. I grab the quilt he left and fold it up, tucking it under my arm. Not knowing what to do, I follow our usual M.O. and spend the day in the woods outside of town.

The morning is spent chastising myself. How could I be so stupid? He told me from the beginning to mind my own business.

But, by late afternoon I'm livid. I just wanted a stupid blanket. What's so important about a dumb bag anyway? He carries the thing around like it's his most prized possession. If he didn't want me near it then why didn't he take it with him?

Night falls and I don't know what to do other than return to the warehouse. The door is jammed shut and I'm pretty sure Edward is in there with his stupid paranoia and a pallet jammed under the doorknob. Fed up, exhausted and hungry, I kick the door and yell at him to let me inside.

The door swings open abruptly and I'm grabbed by the elbow and yanked inside. His arms are around me and his face is buried in my neck.

"Shit, Bella. I'm so sorry. I'm such an ass."

"Yes, you are," I mumbled into his shirt. I'm still pissed though I make no move to separate myself from him. His arms feel safe and if I'm honest, after spending the day thinking I may never see him again, I want to stay wrapped up in him a little longer.

"I just saw you going in there and..." He trails off not finishing his thought. "Please trust me, Bella. It's just better if there's things you don't know."

"I wanted the blanket, Edward. That's it."

"I know. I'm sorry. If you need something from the bag, ask and I'll get it for you. OK? You have to trust me. Please? It's important." I sigh and nod in acquiescence, the earlier fight in me replaced with weariness.

And even though I let it go, one thing's for certain. I want to know more than ever what he's hiding in that damn bag.

A couple more weeks pass and Edward decides it's time to go back to the house. I must say I'm equal parts relieved and nervous. I don't really know what sent us fleeing in the first place, but Edward seems to think it's been long enough for the threat to have passed. With winter fast approaching, however, it will be easier to take care of things than in the warehouse. Edward can get more blankets and clothing for us since we won't have to carry our stuff around on a daily basis. With no one around for miles, we can even build a fire in the fireplace to keep warm. For the first time in a while I feel hopeful and my excitement helps me keep pace with his long legs on our return.

When the tire swing comes into view, I break into a sprint. I feel Edward's arms around my waist and his breath against my cheek as he holds me back. "Easy there, Chatterbox. Let me make sure it's safe first." He leaves me at the edge of the clearing and keeps low, darting behind trees until he is at the house. He squats down under the living room window and raises up slowly to peer inside. He does this around the perimeter of the house, my heart pounding as he disappears around back. I hold my breath until he emerges on the other side unscathed and waves me to him.

It takes some time for Edward to relax after we return to the little house. I catch him staring out the windows often, scanning the treeline for any sign we're still being hunted. As time passes though, he relaxes more and more. He still leaves to retrieve supplies from in town, though not every day as it was in the warehouse. I do my best to make the house a home with what he brings me. We've made quite a nice bed complete with sheets in front of the fireplace. The doors to the rest of the house have been sealed off to try and contain the heat.

Life is mostly easy going and I find I only dread the times Edward goes into town. Despite the cold, I find myself on the tire swing on those days, waiting for him. Every time is the same.

"What are you doing out here, Chatterbox? You're going to freeze," he says upon his return.

I only smile as I go to him, wrapping him in a tight embrace. His moods still vary, his boisterous laughter filling the house on good days, like when he brought me a winter coat and hat. Other times, his edginess creeps back in and he's back to watching the treeline. Yet, regardless of his mood, he has never taken it out on me—not since the incident with his bag.

I notice another change since returning to the house. Edward touches me more. At first it made me nervous. Things are different in the bright light of day than they are in the dark of night and I couldn't keep my mind from remembering my time at the hospital and James. If Edward notices my flinches he ignores them until one day I don't anymore. His touch becomes familiar and nothing like James'. I grow to crave it and seek it out. He makes me feel cherished though nothing is ever spoken in words.

Until it is.

We are curled up on our makeshift bed of blankets in front of a fire. I'm lying on my back with Edward's arms under and around me. My mind wanders again to his past—his family. He lifts his hand and brushes my hair away from my face. His fingers linger on my skin as he trails light touches across my brow.

"Tell me what has you thinking so hard."

"Nothing," I reply out of habit and he smiles.

"Always so talkative." I half heartedly punch him in the chest at his teasing. "Come on, Chatterbox. You look like you're about to explode." I hesitate only because I don't know what to ask first.

"How old are you?" It's a safe place to start I decide.

"That's your burning question?" he laughs and I turn my head frustrated. He slides his finger to my cheek and tilts my face back to his. "Nineteen. You?"

"Fifteen."

His eyebrows shoot up at my response. "Maybe I should start calling you jailbait," he says leaning back to put a few inches between us.

"Stop it," I say grabbing his shirt and pulling him back to me. "There's no law about you being my personal heater." Edward doesn't put up much resistance and settles back against me easily.

"Anything else?"

"Why are you out here like this? Where's your family?"

Even in the low light of the room I watch his eyes darken. I want to take it back and have him tease me like moments before, but I can't. Placing my hand against his chest, I try to provide what comfort I can. I want him to trust me—to open up. No matter how close we've become there's still a part of himself Edward will not share.

He closes his eyes at my touch and sucks in a deep breath. "My old man liked to use me as a punching bag." It's all he offers and I sense not to push.

"So you left?"

"So I left."

"How long have you been on your own?"

"Three years."

Three years. Three years. The two words play on repeat. I can't imagine being alone for that long, going from place to place, stealing and scraping by just to survive.

"Your turn." Edward interrupts my racing thoughts.

"My turn?"

"Yeah. You know? I'll show you mine if you show me yours? Don't get all quiet on me now, Chatterbox."

It's now or never and though I'm scared of what he will think I'm suddenly desperate for someone to know the truth.

I want someone to know what my mother did to me.

**A/N: For kicks and giggles I also made a banner. It is something that I love doing! A link can be found on my profile.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: I feel like I've been hit by a truck. This time change business is for the birds. Hope you enjoy the new chapter!**

_Based on a true story._

It's a warm spring day and for once I pass the afternoon doing something for myself. I spend my time at the park; taking a paddle boat out on the pond, swinging on the swing set. No one is around—not Renee and not Cheryl Clapp—and I revel in the solitude, losing myself in my own mind. By the time I return home I'm drunk with spring fever. I'm ready for sun and lazy days spent doing nothing.

The screen door slams behind me and I make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water. Voices drift through the house causing me to stop mid-twist of the ice tray. It's Renee and someone else—a man. I roll my eyes. I guess Renee has no love loss for Randy or Ricky or Ryan. She moves on fast and I wonder how living with this flavor of the month will be.

Hoping to avoid awkward introductions I carry my water to the living room and flop down on the sofa. I have a ton of homework, but want to savor a little more of the weekend. I'm debating getting up to turn on the fan when Renee appears. A tall man wearing a suit and glasses stands behind her. He's older than I expected, clean cut—not her usual type.

I guess I should have seen it coming. Renee had been acting strange for weeks. Twice I came home to find her snooping in my room. I'd stood at my door staring until she realized I was watching and pretended to straighten the bedspread. I didn't buy it for a minute, but I didn't understand why she was there either.

"Sweetheart?" I blink the memory away and give her my full attention. Her words put me on edge. She's never called me sweetheart. "This is Dr. Gerandy." Renee motions to the tall man behind her. "He's from Broughton Hospital and baby, we're concerned."

"Isabella, your mother has shared a little with me about your erratic behavior." He pauses, lifting an eyebrow as if he expects a response, but I am stunned stupid. When I don't respond, Dr. Gerandy continues. "We think it might be best if you come stay at Broughton for awhile."

"But, I'm not sick." I'm confused and don't know exactly what is going on, but the knot forming in the pit of my stomach tells me it's not a misunderstanding. This is calculated.

"Sweetheart," Renee sits beside me on the couch and strokes my hair soothingly like she is a good mother. Her touch sends ice water through my veins. "This hospital is not for the physically ill."

Dr. Gerandy steps fully into the room. "Broughton deals with those afflicted mentally and emotionally." His tone is gentle, like you would use to coax a frightened animal, but it's effect is quite the opposite.

I whirl on Renee. "What did you do?"

"Sweetheart." Renee tries to take my hands in hers but I bat them away and stand.

"What did you do! You've been snooping around my room for weeks!" The pieces slowly click into place and I realize my assumption is correct. She orchestrated this.

"This is what I was talking about, Dr. Gerandy. She's so volatile. I've tried to reason with her, to talk to her about the drugs and the boys."

"Sex? You're accusing me of promiscuity? Oh that's rich, Renee."

Renee turns to Dr. Gerandy, ignoring my vague accusation. "It's why my fiancé left. She shamelessly threw herself at him. It disgusted him. He couldn't stand it any longer."

I looked to Dr. Gerandy. Surely, he could see through this dramatic performance. My eyes found his and what I saw there drained me of what fledgling hope remained. Whether he believed my mother or whether he'd been conditioned by working with the mentally insane, he stood unsympathetic.

Suddenly exhausted my knees gave out and I sagged back down to the couch—the irredeemable situation swallowing me whole.

"You saw the condoms yourself. She's only thirteen. I just don't know what to do with her anymore." Renee continued her list of my so called sins, but I could no longer listen. It was all I could do to fight the tears threatening to fall.

I had no idea how long their conversation continued until Dr. Gerandy spoke the words that would seal my fate. "You have an hour to get some things together. A car will be here to pick you up shortly."

The tears are wet on my cheeks when I finish the tale of my demise. Edward is tense beside me and I wonder if I've disgusted him.

"I'm not crazy," I whisper into his chest.

"No, Bella, I know. Your mother's the crazy one."

I burrow further into his embrace and he tightens his arms in response. Edward doesn't speak, waiting silently for me to continue knowing there is more to my story—more that sent me fleeing until I stumbled upon him and the little white house.

Broughton.

It's a place I'd rather forget and I contemplate ending my story for the evening.

"It's ok," he whispers, sensing my apprehension. "You don't have to tell me anymore if you don't want to."

"No. I want to." And as I say it I know it's true. For as long as I can remember I haven't had anyone I could trust—not my mother and certainly not any of the men she paraded through the house. Laying here in Edward's arms I decide to trust him wholeheartedly.

As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, he raises his hand to tuck an errant piece of hair behind my ear and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. The words tumble from my lips as I tell him of my time at Broughton—Dr. Gerandy, powdered eggs, Alice, merit stars, Lauren, solitary confinement, James—what he did to me in the shower. All of it.

By the time I finish, tears stain my cheeks once again and Edward's grip on me is so tight I can barely breathe. I grab his shirt with my fist and let the anger and sadness pour out. He doesn't shush me and he doesn't let go. I scream and cry until there is nothing left except my sweat soaked shirt and red, swollen face.

I roll onto my back to provide some space between us—embarrassed that I've come undone so completely—but Edward will have none of it and turns with me. His upper body covers mine and I close my eyes to revel in the sense of safety his weight against me brings. I startle as his mouth brushes my heated skin, kissing away the last remnant of tears. He stops and I open my eyes to find him close, so close I can feel his breath against my lips. He hovers, not moving any closer and I realize he is waiting for me.

My fingers find purchase in the hair at the nape of his neck and I pull him to me, crashing my mouth to his. He's holding back, but I want him. I want him closer. I need him closer. Pushing my tongue into his mouth, I find the hem of his shirt and run my hands underneath, across the expanse of his naked back. He groans and I feel his hips shift against me. Edward slows the kiss and pulls back, resting his forehead against mine.

"Jailbait for sure, Chatterbox," he breathes and then his lips find mine once again.

**A/N: The good news is that chapter 12 is already with he beta and I got spring break coming up in a couple of weeks. Planning on some power writing!**

**Please review. I would love to hear from you! **


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: A little less than 2 weeks. Not bad. My spring break is just around the bin and I am hoping to spend a good deal of it power writing. Unless something crazy happens, I should be able to post regularly. *fingers crossed***

It's one of those days. Edward stands next to the window watching the treeline. The muscles in his jaw work overtime as he clenches and unclenches his teeth. I'm freezing—the first snow having fallen earlier this morning—and lay buried under a pile of blankets since Edward won't let me start a fire. I know he's worried someone will see the smoke. From the little he's shared about his family I seriously doubt his father would make such an effort to find him, but his fear is palpable. He's afraid someone will find us.

The thought crosses my mind it could be me they're looking for. I'm utterly cut off from the world—never leaving the house—so my knowledge of current events is slim. Edward makes trips into town on a frequent basis. I suppose it's possible he's heard rumors, maybe someone in town asking questions. I'm sure Broughton is searching. An escaped mental patient is newsworthy any day and I'm sure they seek to erase the blemish on their record. Still I don't think that's the case. Call it a hunch, but in my gut I know it has something to do with whatever is in the bag he carries around like an extension of himself, and the cash he somehow manages to acquire.

I've thought this through thousands of times—the days spent on the tire swing waiting for Edward to return—rolling ideas around in my head. Theories come and go. I play with them, see if they feel right. Many are discarded, but one lingers and I know it's only denial keeping me from settling on the truth now.

Edward's sigh brings me out of my thoughts. He's still staring out the window and my mouth moves before my brain can catch up.

"Do you take them?"

His eyes snap to mine and I have his undivided attention. "What?"

"Your bag. Do you take them or use it or whatever?"

He tries to appear confused, but I can see the truth in his eyes.

"Please don't lie to me." I don't think I can bare it if he plays dumb. I've trusted him with everything and for some reason I need him to do the same.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Chatterbox. Go back to sleep." His eyes drift back to the window, scanning.

"Don't do that, Edward. Please don't treat me like I'm stupid."

"And what is it you think you know?" He huffs a breathy laugh, but there is no humor in it.

"I know you carry that bag around all the time. I know there's something in it you don't want me to see. I know you inexplicably have cash on you, almost all the time now, and I know you think someone is after you." His eyes flash, nostrils flaring and I want to wither under his stare. I'm walking that tightrope again, but this time I pray our relationship is strong enough for it not to snap and so I press on. "But what I want to know is if you're taking any of it?"

Edward remains silent and I can tell he's torn—warring with himself. I stand to my feet and go to him, pressing my hand against his cheek until his eyes lock with mine. "Tell me," I plead.

His shoulders slump with his admittance. "No. I don't take any of it." My eyes burn. His thumb runs under my eye, catching the tear before it has time to fall.

The confirmation creates a torrent of emotion.

Edward's a drug dealer.

Edward's a drug dealer.

It plays on repeat in my mind.

It's one of the very things my mother accused me of and I realize it has become some sort of self fulfilling prophecy. I'm shacked up with a drug dealer. The irony angers me and no one is here to receive the brunt of it except Edward.

"Is that who's looking for you? Is that who is making you paranoid? You know the hospital is probably looking for me and you go and do this? What would happen if you got caught? God, Edward! Did you even think about me?"

He lunges forward and grabs my upper arms giving me a swift shake.

"I've only ever thought about you!" he screams. "You think I want to do this? It was hard enough trying to scrape by when I was on my own, but now with an extra mouth to feed..."

My hand flies to my mouth at his words. I pushed him to do this. My fault. It's my fault. All my fears of being a burden are true. My heart is racing and I can barely breathe. Suddenly it seems stifling hot and all I can think about is getting outside—away. "Please let me go," I beg.

Edward's face crumples. "Please, Chatterbox. I didn't mean it." He loosens his hold and it's enough for me to break free before turning and running from the house. The screen door slams behind me followed by another and I know Edward is chasing me. I don't care. I don't want to be caught.

He confided in me. He trusted me. I showed him mine and he finally showed me his. The last of the wall between us crumbles and I throw it back in his face—selfish and ungrateful. I pump my legs harder, but his longer ones overtake me and he tackles me to the ground.

The cold, wet snow seeps into my clothes as Edward wraps his body around me, pinning me to the ground. I struggle to break free, but he is too strong. It saps my energy until I have none and give in. It is only then I realize he is shaking, not from cold, but from tears. The fight in me gone, I fold him in my arms.

We lay in the snow shivering yet unable to let go. Pictures of a bronze haired boy with skinned knees fill my mind. He's huddled in the corner of his room as his father yells how he'll never amount to anything. The boy ducks his head as his father raises his fist to teach him a lesson.

The image breaks my heart and I begin whispering over and over to the bronze haired boy in my arms, "I love you. I love you. I love you." If he hears my words he doesn't let on until eventually he calms, resting his head on my chest.

"I'm so sorry, Bella. Please don't leave me." he begs hoarsely. "I don't want to be alone anymore. I need you. This is why I never wanted you to know. I never wanted to disappoint you. I'm so sorry."

"I'm not disappointed."

He shakes his head. "Bella, don't-"

"I won't lie. It scares me. I'm scared you'll get caught. I'm scared I'll get caught. I'm scared something will go wrong and you'll get hurt, but I know you're doing everything you can. I'm the one who should apologize. You've done nothing but take care of me and I criticize how you've done it. How can I hold anything against you?"

His arms wrap around my waist and he lifts me off the ground. I yelp and Edward laughs a teary laugh into my neck. He carries me back to the house and sets me back down, but doesn't let go. The look in his eyes could only be described as desperation and his gaze heats my skin as lips find mine.

"We need to get out of these wet clothes before we freeze to death," he admonishes as he slows his kisses.

He loosens his hold on me and turns to our meager pile of clothes. Catching his fingers I pull him back to me.

"Bella, what—"

I silence him with my lips as my fingers find the closure of his shirt, trembling as I fumble with the buttons. He grabs my hand, halting my movements.

"What are you doing to me, Chatterbox?"

"This," I answer by leaning forward and pressing my lips to the smattering of hair peeking out from the undone buttons of his shirt. Edward closes his eyes and then his hands grasp the hem of my top. The moments pass in a flurry of lips, tongues and tangled limbs. He walks me back until we're laying on the pallet of blankets in front of the fireplace. Clothes shed, I arch into him as his bare chest presses to mine for the first time.

And then he's there.

He pauses and runs his fingers through my hair. "I don't want to hurt you, Chatterbox." I slide my hands down to his lower back and press, letting him know what I can't find the words to say. Edward presses his forehead to mine and kisses the tip of my nose before surging forward, tearing through the last of my innocence.

The intrusion hurts, but I can focus on nothing else than the beautiful boy above me. He's gentle and slow and his shoulders shake with the effort it takes. Dropping soft kisses all over my face, he begins to move and I wrap my legs around his waist wanting him closer. His pace quickens and I move with him. The muscles across his chest are taut as he holds himself up. I watch his face in fascination as he stills suddenly and throws his head back. He collapses on top of me—his breath coming in short pants against my neck causing goosebumps to erupt across my skin.

"I love you," I say, loud enough for him to hear this time, because it's all I can think in this moment.

He squeezes me tight and presses his cheek to mine in response.

And for now, it's enough.

**A/N: Can you feel it? Have you read my other stories? If so, you can probably feel it coming. Buckle up and put your big girl panties on! Leave me a review and let me know what you are thinking!**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: So this chapter took an unexpected turn. Many of you have been wanting to know more about Edward's character and to be honest my connection to the true story is through the person Bella's character is based on...sort of... I don't know as much about the real Edward, but for some reason the Edward I have shaped in this story wanted his background told and VIOLA! This chapter emerged. The good news is Edward has delayed the pain for at least one more chapter.**

****_Based on a true story._

In like a lion and out like a lamb, or so the saying goes. This spring proves no differently—the biting wind and cold finally giving way to crisp clear mornings and vivid afternoons. Tulips cheerfully dot the ground around the large oak. Clutching the tire swing, I kick my legs before leaning back to let the sun warm my skin. I can't remember the last time I was this happy.

Maybe never.

I sit up and gaze across the field sensing it's time for Edward to come home. Home. I don't know when I started thinking of the little white house as home, but it feels more like home than the Clara Cox Apartments ever did. Then again, maybe it isn't the house. Maybe it's the company. Sure enough, I see his mess of bronze hair amongst the green of the field. I know it drives him crazy as he's always tossing his head, trying in vain to keep it out of his face.

He looks up and sees me watching him. A glorious grin lights his whole face and his stride becomes more purposeful. When he reaches me, he grabs the tire swing and spins us in a swooping circle whooping and hollering at the top of his lungs.

"What's gotten into you?" I laugh at his antics.

He grabs my face and pulls it to him, landing a kiss square on my mouth. "I found a job."

"What? Where?"

"Bagging groceries at the Big Bear."

"So you're done? You can stop selling?"

Edward leans in again and this time the kiss is slower. He pulls back and smiles. "Never again, Chatterbox."

And now it's me who's whooping and hollering.

"Look what I got," he tells me once we've both calmed down. He drops his bag off his shoulder and opens to reveal a carton of eggs, a couple slices of ham and some bread. My stomach growls at the sight. I feel like I've never seen so much food.

I spend the evening preparing our "breakfast for supper" over an open fire. When I'm through, Edward leads me back to one of the bedrooms and the sight makes my breath catch in my throat. Candles light the room and the quilt is spread out on the floor. Two red tulips tied together with a bow made from packing string adorns the center.

"I know it's not much, but I wanted to do something nice." His voice is quiet and I realize he's a little anxious.

"It's perfect." I stand on my tiptoes intending to brush a kiss against his cheek but he turns at the last moment and catches my mouth instead. He slips his tongue past my lips seeking mine. Gripping my waist he pulls me flush against him, his hands sliding down to settle low on my waist. Since we crossed that line, Edward is insatiable, but I can't complain. I want him all the time.

"Dinner's going to get cold," I whisper against his mouth. We don't get to eat like this often and it would be a tragedy to let it go to waste. Edward pulls away reluctantly, his hand dropping lower to give me a brief squeeze, and smiles.

"Fine, but we will be getting back to that later," he says, causing my stomach to flutter.

We eat until we are both stuffed. Edward shoves one more bite in and moans. He lays down, holding his stomach as he struggles to chew and swallow. He looks both miserable and content.

I laugh at his antics. "Don't make yourself sick."

"My ma cooked ham and eggs for breakfast every Saturday morning." The turn in conversation catches me off guard. His eyes are closed now. The corners of his mouth are turned up slightly and the worry normally lining his face is nowhere to be found. He's noticeably lighter and I'm struck once again by how beautiful he really is.

I'm afraid of ruining his good mood, but my curiosity wins out. "So things weren't always bad?"

"No." He pauses so long I don't think he will continue, but then he sits up and opens his eyes. They're mossy green and intense, but thankfully the weight of worry seems still at bay. "My father was a truck driver. He was only home brief periods of time before he went back on the road."

"Did he always hurt you?"

Edward blinks and then drops his eyes to where his hands fidget in his lap. "Not always. I remember one time he came home, he'd been gone for almost a month. Ma wasn't feeling well and helped her into bed. He wanted her to get some sleep so he decided we would go fishing. He taught me how to bait the hook and cast the line. I was so nervous the first time I tried and the hook got caught in the tree behind me—thought I was in for it—but he just laughed and told me we weren't fishing for squirrels. We didn't catch anything, but that was ok."

"Sounds like it was a good day," I say.

"Yeah. It was." His voice is quiet, but steady.

I'm burning with questions and though I don't want to put a damper on our evening I can't help but take advantage of Edward talking openly and not shutting down. "But that wasn't normal." It's a statement and I watch the soft smile on Edward's face disappear at my words.

Dammit.

"No. Most of the time I dreaded when he came home. I never knew how bad it was going to be." The weight is back and the brightness in his eyes flatten.

"Edward," I whisper, wanting him to stop. As much as I thought I wanted him to open up, I don't know if I want to hear this.

"He told me to have the leaves raked before he got home. He was suppose to be gone a week, but he came home early." My heart clenches in my chest. "He locked me in a closet for two days. I just remember it being dark and I was so cold from where I couldn't hold it anymore and wet myself.

"Sometimes I thought he was going to kill us. My ma had spent all day cooking. She was cleaning house, wanting everything to be perfect when he got home, and forgot about the pie in the oven. He beat her so bad I thought she was dead. I ran next door for help, but the neighbors were gone. I got a wet cloth and tried to clean the blood off her face and then just held her hand. She finally woke up and I helped her to bed. She stayed there for two weeks. My father had disappeared. I took care of things as best as I could until she recovered."

"How old were you?"

"Six."

A tear slips down my cheek at the image that forms in my mind—a scrawny bronze haired boy with sad green eyes holding his broken mother's hand.

"What made you finally leave?"

"My father got laid off. He was home all the time. I begged Ma to go with me, but she wouldn't leave him. I stayed gone more than I was home—sleeping at a friends house or anywhere I could find. One day I just didn't go back."

"Have you seen or talked to your mother since?"

He shakes his head and swallows thickly before laying back down and throwing his arm over his eyes. Edward is through talking and for the first time in a while an awkward silence fills the room. I move to begin cleaning up, but Edward's hand shoots out and grabs mine.

"Stay," he says simply. He rises and disappears into the living room. When he returns he's holding a package wrapped in brown paper and more of the packing string. "I got you a present."

He hands me the package as I stare at it curiously. I pull the string and the paper falls away to reveal two books. I immediately recognize Wuthering Heights and wonder at how he somehow chose my favorite.

I turn the other over and read its cover. "To Kill a Mockingbird."

"A classic and a contemporary. I didn't know what you like so I got opposite ends of the spectrum. It's not much, but I thought you could use something to keep you occupied while I was at work—to help pass the time."

His gift is wonderful and I lunge at him, knocking him backwards and peppering kisses all over his face. The kisses quickly turn from playful to heated as Edward's hands find their way back to their favorite place.

He slips one hand under my shirt and lifts his hips to press against me. "You ready to pick back up where we left off earlier, Chatterbox?"

I lift up and pull my shirt over my head before falling back on top of him.

****"More than ready."

**A/N: This is the 4th story I have written that has been either historical fiction or based on a true story. As an author, it is a fine line to walk - staying true to what happened, but using creative license to fill in the gaps. As readers, do you prefer to just take it all as real so you can get lost in the story and characters or do you wonder which parts are real and which parts are fake? Do you wonder to the point you would actually want to know? Let me know in your reviews.**


End file.
